Earning Her Trust: Braxton Arcade Book One

by Adore Ian

  This is the one downside to living alone, there’s no one around when I need help. Right now, I wish I had a roommate to run and get me some pain meds. I’ve looked through all my drawers and cabinets. I’ve got nothing. I’ve been on the pill so long, I barely get a period anymore. I can’t even remember the last time I had cramps bad enough to require pain meds—so I have none.

  I stuff the aftercare instructions back into my purse and glance at the clock. It’s a quarter past eleven. Everyone I could call to bring me meds is either at work or out with Vicky. And I don’t know any of my neighbors.

  Except Damian.

  I never responded to his last few texts. I’m not avoiding him, I’ve just been so busy with exams that I haven’t had time to answer before I forget. I’ve also been so stressed and busy that sex is the last thing on my mind.

  Yet you still made that doctors appointment today, didn’t you?

  Another cramp rolls through me and I swear my uterus is trying to escape.

  Fuck. This.

  It’s kind of Damian’s fault anyway, and I’m in so much pain that I don’t care if I embarrass myself. I reach for my phone and pray my sexiest neighbor is sitting at home on a Friday night.

  Damian

  I’ve been at this shitty bar for less than thirty minutes and already I want to hurl myself through a window. The music is shitty, the atmosphere is shitty, and Marrin texted Vicky earlier to say she wasn’t coming. Shitty.

  Worse, there are plenty of ladies hitting on me. I’m just not interested in even pretending to entertain their attention. The little dude in my pants isn’t either—surprising, because usually he has a pretty stiff opinion. Pun intended.

  I finish my beer and say goodbye to my friends. I’d rather be sitting at home alone than stay a minute longer.

  I’m unlocking the door to my Jeep when my phone buzzes. I climb in and can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face when I see who it is.

  Marrin: Random: are you home? If yes, do you have any pain meds?

  Marrin: I’m not picky. I’ll take anything.

  Marrin: Off brand, expired, your aunt’s dog’s pain pills—anything.

  Damian: I’m fresh out of aunt Ethel’s poodle’s Vicodin, but I’m at the store now & I’ll grab whatever you want. My treat ; )

  Marrin: ~swoon~ my hero. I’ll take whatever ibuprofen is cheapest.

  Damian: See you in 15.

  I pull out of the parking lot and head to the nearest drug store. Thirteen minutes later I’m knocking on Marrin’s door with a six-pack of beer, a bag of chocolate, and a bottle of top shelf ibuprofen.

  I hear the locks slide then the door opens.

  My expression drops.

  Marrin’s hunched over as if she’s shielding her body and mascara is pooled around her eyes like she’s been crying. She’s wearing only a T-shirt, which she’s holding down in front because it’s barely long enough to cover her underwear.

  “Are you all right?” My eyes go straight to her exposed skin, scanning for bruises and defensive wounds. I don’t see any—thank God—but I check her ankles, wrists and inner thighs one more time just to be sure.

  She shakes her head, noticing. “I’m fine. How much do I owe you?”

  I realize then that she’s not going to let me in, and I’m not okay with that because clearly something is wrong here.

  I fish out the bottle of meds from one of the bags and hold it out. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Yes, I do. How mu—”

  She doubles over, biting her lip and gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping her on her feet. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes, and her knees bend so far forward I’m not sure her grip on the door will keep her standing.

  I don’t think, just move.

  Losing the bags, I grab her shoulder to steady her and push into her apartment. I wrap an arm around her back and bend to scoop her into my arms.

  “Please don’t.” The pain in her voice stops me dead. I freeze, one arm still around her back. “That’ll make it worse. Give me a second.”

  “Can you walk?”

  She nods.

  I steady her and carefully guide her to the couch. A pair of jeans is heaped on the floor as if she’d kicked them off while lying down. I help her sit then run back to get the bags. I move to the kitchen and come back to the living room, handing her two pills and a glass of water.

  She takes both, downing the water completely. “Thank you.” Her whole body visibly relaxes.

  “You’re welcome. Do you want more water? I also brought beer.”

  Her stomach growls. “More water would be great.”

  I take the empty glass. “You shouldn’t take ibuprofen on an empty stomach. You’ll get an ulcer.” I give her a cocky smile when she frowns at me, then move into the kitchen. “What do you want to eat?”

  I’m not surprised when I open her fridge and see it’s as empty as any college student’s would be after exams.

  “I’m fine,” Marrin says.

  I close the fridge and look at her over the counter. Her face is wrinkled in pain and she’s leaning in a weird position as if she’d tried to lay down, but got stuck because it hurt.

  “You’re not fine.” I round the counter with more water and the bag of snack size Kit Kat bars I picked up at the store. The pain on her face breaks into a genuine smile when I offer her one. She starts laughing but winces, grabbing her stomach.

  I sit down next to her, careful not to shake the cushions too much.

  She notices. “I’m not on my period, Damian. But ten outta ten for effort.”

  “I try. You should’ve seen me in the feminine hygiene aisle at the drugstore. I couldn’t decide if you were a tampon girl or a pad girl.”

  Marrin looks at me the same way I imagine she looks at puppies and piglets—like I’m utterly adorable.

  “For the record,” I add, “I was going to go with tampons before they kicked me out for loitering.”

  We laugh.

  “Ouch, no more jokes. It hurts.”

  “My bad.” I unwrap a Kit Kat and hold it in front of her mouth. She raises an eyebrow, glancing from me to the chocolate.

  I smirk.

  She grabs the candy and stuffs it into her mouth then pulls her knees to her chest and leans back into the couch. I unwrap a Kit Kat for myself and she taps my arm, holding out her palm. I shake my head and surrender the chocolate.

  “What do you want for dinner?” I take out my phone and pull up the closest restaurants that deliver.

  “I’ll find something.”

  I look over and see her head resting back, eyes closed. I also see that, once again, she’s wearing red panties… Goosebumps pebble her skin.

  I stand. “I checked your fridge, Mar, it’s empty. How do you feel about Chinese food?”

  “Ooh, I feel really good about vegetable fried rice and orange chicken.”

  “Done,” I say.

  I open a thin door on the other side of the kitchen and am pleased to find that it is, in fact, the linen closet. We live in the same building but our apartments are laid out differently. Hers is a one bedroom with concrete floors, a high ceiling and big industrial windows lining the brick wall opposite the kitchen.

  I know the door near the windows leads to her bedroom because I’ve seen her disappear into it. Other than the bathroom door, and the front door, this was one of two possible choices. The other must be the pantry.

  Just like her kitchen and living room, her linen closet is a joke. There are a few odd cleaning supplies and what might be an extra pair of sheets, but no blanket. I imagine there must be a blanket on her bed, but she’s private. In the few times I’ve been over, I’ve gotten the impression that she doesn’t want me near her room. It’s a boundary.

  “Be right back,” I announce.

  I’m out the door before she can ask where I’m going. I run to my apartment and return a second later with a big fluffy blanket. I wave it out, ignoring the p
uzzled look on her face, and drape it over her legs. Then I sit down and order food.

  I lean back, crossing my ankles on her coffee table. She glances behind us at the door. I don’t have to see her face to know she’s just realized that when I came back in, I left my shoes and jacket by the door.

  Smooth, if I do say so myself.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  I lace my hands behind my head and give her an innocent look. Working my way into your heart and earning your trust. Showing you there is more between us than sex. Making you mine. I go with, “Waiting for dinner to show up…?”

  She narrows her eyes.

  I add, “With my friend who doesn’t feel well and who won’t tell me what’s wrong because she’s too stubborn to ask for help. A friend who I’m also exclusively sleeping with.”

  “And who is not your girlfriend.”

  Semantics.

  “A friend who desperately wants me to be her boyfriend but I’m just not there yet.”

  She chuffs and turns to the TV. It’s paused on some old black and white movie. “I did ask for ibuprofen.”

  “Yeah, and had you not nearly collapsed in the doorway, you’d have shut it on me and likely never made it to the kitchen to get the water needed to take it. Nor would you have had dinner.”

  She works her jaw in silence, and I know I’ve won.

  “What are we watching?” I ask.

  “I’m watching Cat People.”

  “Really? To the guy who just bought you dinner?”

  She sits up, eyes flaring. “You’re not paying for—”

  She clutches her stomach, grinding her teeth.

  Instinctively I reach out to comfort her, but catch myself. “What do you need?” I have no idea what’s wrong with her, so I have no idea how to help.

  When the pain subsides she sits back, knees still tucked into her chest. She pulls my blanket around her and my inner alpha male swells with possessive pride.

  Fucking Neanderthal.

  “A heating pad,” she declares, staring at the ceiling. “A heating pad would be nice.”

  I stand. “Where is it?”

  “I don’t have one.” She rolls her head to me. “Sit down. I’m fine.”

  I sigh, pulling my keys from my pocket. “I wonder sometimes how you’ve survived this long without me.” Three seconds later, I’m pulling a heating pad from beneath my bed.

  On my way back to her apartment, I get a call that the delivery person is downstairs. I run to the lobby and pay for our food. I return to her with everything she needs. Myself included. Damn if the alpha male in me doesn’t want to bang his chest like King Kong.

  Down, boy.

  I get everything we need to eat and set it out on the coffee table. I even plug in the heating pad and hand it to her. She lays it on her lower abdomen and groans, her whole body relaxing as she soaks in the heat.

  “So what’s this Cat People movie about?” I ask, sitting down.

  The couch cushions are stiff but not uncomfortable. I wonder if it’s because the couch is brand new or if it’s just never been used. I notice that she seems to sink into the cushions on her side better. Maybe she’s one of those people who has a specific spot where they always sit—like Sheldon on The Big Bang Theory.

  But as I look around at how empty and impersonal her apartment is, I wonder if she just never has anyone over. Never lets anyone in…

  “It’s a noir film from 1942,” Marrin says, swallowing a mouthful of orange chicken. “On a really surface level, it’s about this lady, Irena, who thinks she’s descended from ancient Serbian cat people who shift forms when they feel threatened or sexually aroused. The idea sort of haunts her the entire film. She marries this guy, Oliver, but it doesn’t work out because she’s crippled by the idea that she might be a cat person. It sort of prevents her from living her life. Oliver also falls in love with his coworker, Alice Moore, and Irena gets jealous. There’s a lot more going on about suppression of female sexuality and stuff, but yeah. By the end of the film, a few people get stalked and murdered. It’s pretty good.”

  “Timeout.” I point at the TV with a chopstick. “Are you saying a house cat goes on a killing spree?”

  “No,” she chuckles. “I didn’t explain that well. It’s a big panther, but you mostly just see its shadow.”

  “So is Irena a cat person?”

  “You’ll just have to watch and find out.” She starts the film from the beginning and we settle in to watch.

  By the end, Marrin and I are nestled into our respective ends of her couch. She’s curled up on her side, fast asleep. I’m lounging in the opposite corner, legs tucked under the end of the blanket she’s wrapped in. It’s nearly one A.M. when I check my phone.

  Carefully, I get up and turn off the TV. It’s dark so I use the light on my phone to see. I clean up, and before I leave, I set the ibuprofen bottle next to a full glass of water on the coffee table. I grab her keys from the counter and pen a quick note letting her know I have them. Then I slip out, quietly locking her apartment door behind me.

  A part of me wanted to pick her up and tuck her into bed, but I didn’t want to freak her out. And again, I get the impression her bedroom is off limits. I mean there is a lock on the door.

  In the two-ish months we’ve been sleeping together, I’ve been in her apartment enough times to count on one hand. Until recently, we’ve always ended up at my place. She’s never once asked me to come over, and I’ve never once asked if I can. I do prefer to bring women to my apartment where I can control everything from the evening’s entertainment to the breakfast menu, but it is kind of strange that she never invites me over.

  I was honestly shocked when she didn’t kick me out tonight after we ate dinner. A fact that has part of me dancing with excitement.

  Something about Marrin makes me want to be the guy she asks to come over. To be the guy she lets in. Call me a romantic, but I knew within five minutes of talking to her that first night we slept together that there was more than sex between us. I think she knows it, too.

  She’s just ignoring it.

  Lucky for her, I’m not. She and I are endgame. I want her to be mine. Tonight was one of many small victories I’ve planned to slowly break down her defenses until she finally lets me in all the way.

  7

  Marrin

  The deadbolt slides and I jolt upright, eyes going straight to the door. The only light is from the streetlights outside. It’s not much, but it’s enough to let me see that the sound was from the deadbolt locking, not unlocking. I sag with relief.

  Wait, who the fuck has my keys?

  I get up, flipping on every light, and peer through the peephole. I see Damian entering his apartment, my keys in his hand.

  I set the rest of the door locks and turn, ready to grab my phone and demand my keys, when a note on the counter catches my eye. It’s from Damian. He says he has my keys because he didn’t want to wake me up or leave with just having set the simple twist lock on the doorknob. He promises to return them tomorrow morning when he comes over to make me breakfast.

  I snort. But whether at his arrogant assumption or because I actually want to have breakfast with him—I have no idea.

  I ready for bed and walk to my room, stopping to pick up Damian’s blanket and heating pad. Both smell like him. Not that I’m smelling them or anything. Because I’m not.

  Liar.

  I stare at the glass of water next to the ibuprofen.

  I leave his blanket on the couch.

  In my bedroom, I lock the door, plug in the heating pad and climb into bed.

  I lay there for two solid minutes before getting up.

  I grab the water, the ibuprofen, and the blanket from the living room and return to my bed. I have no idea what I’m doing or why. I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m fine on my own.

  But you want someone to take care of you, don’t you?

  Letting Damian in will only end in heartache. I’m Iren
a and he’s Oliver. If I let him in, I’ll destroy us both.

  I wake up the next morning to knocking on my door. I try not to jump out of bed and fail. I check my appearance and brush my teeth. The pounding grows louder, and I mentally clip the wings of the butterflies flitting around in my stomach like birds around a Disney princess.

  I look through the peephole then open the door. I have two deadbolts that open with a key from the outside that are both attached to separate, reinforced strike plates. I have a chain, an industrial slide lock, the shitty twist lock standard on most doorknobs, and a door wedge. Alice’s husband, Gavin, installed most of it when I moved in. I briefly wonder if Damian has noticed.

  I pull open the door and step aside.

  He cocks his head, working his chiseled jaw, which he hasn’t yet shaved today. Goddamn he’s sexy.

  “What?” I say.

  He shrugs, crossing the threshold. “Nothing. Simply noticing that you’re not putting up a fight about letting me in.”

  I shut the door and nonchalantly slide onto a barstool. Damian checks the oven before turning it on. “It’s easier to just let you in. You’re like an alley cat in heat, yowling at my door.”

  He bursts out laughing.

  “What? I don’t want you waking the neighbors.”

  “First, you’ve clearly been watching too many films like Cat People. Second, you’re the one who shows up at my door whenever she has an itch that needs scratching.”

  Now I’m laughing, feigning offense. “Excuse me? This coming from mister ‘how about you grind that sweet ass on me in the bathroom’ is rich.”

  His muscles flex. “I did not say that—”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “—and you’re the one who stuffed her wet panties into my pocket. If that’s not a yowling cat, then I don’t know what is.”

  I’m off the stool in a second, pulling up the texts from Vicky’s birthday on my phone. “We both know my panties were sweaty not wet. And don’t act like Vlad the Impaler didn’t immediately rise from the dead when you put your hand in your pocket. Half the club saw it.”